Starcrossed
by Itime
Summary: Some things were meant to be, but time and circumstances will not allow them. Chapter 7. Lindorie endures a sewing lesson.
1. Return to Tirion

'Makalaurë!' Maitimo cried as he ran along the crystal streets of Tirion, nimbly dodging around older, more dignified elves. Several drew breath to upbraid the nearly grown boy for rudely interrupting their conversations with his shouting, but the red hair and the eight pointed star embroidered upon his tunic identified him as the son of Fëanaro. None of the elves wished to earn Finwë's disappointment for scolding his heir. They confined their expressions of displeasure to a disapproving shake of the head and inaudible mutterings of Fëanaro passing along his hot blood to his children.

'Makalaurë!' Maitimo skidded around a corner and halted a hair's breadth from a marble statue. The statue, a graceful representation of a dancing woman, examined him with a fixed smile and unseeing eyes.

'This is hopeless,' he muttered. His family had just returned to Tirion after years of exploring the land of Valinor. His father's restlessness would have driven his small family further than any save the Ainur had gone, to lands untrodden by any of the Children of Eru, but Nerdanel, now heavy with her third child, had insisted with all of her gentle firmness that the babe be born among the Noldor in Tirion. 'How else shall he know his people? And how else shall his people know him?' she had asked of her husband.

'They shall know him because he is my son,' Fëanaro had said, but he had relented all the same. The journey to Tirion had taken months of travel through thick forests and over mountains almost as high as the Pelori. The stars had faded as they moved eastwards and into the light of the Two Trees. They had remained at Aule's court for several weeks so Nerdanel could be with her mother and father. Maitimo had hoped they would remain longer in Valmar. His mother's father took great joy in his grandchildren. Mahtan would spend days teaching them his craft, patiently answering all of their questions and correcting their mistakes in a gentle way their impatient father could never manage.

But Finwë dwelt in Tirion and Fëanaro, anxious to see his own father, had insisted the family move on.

Tirion, Maitimo had to admit, had its advantages. There were a great many more people and there was usually some exciting event taking place. It had to have been the promise of some excitement that had lured Makalaurë away from the family home on a day they were expected at Grandfather Finwë's table.

Maitimo sagged against a wall. It had seemed a good idea to go in search of Makalaurë before either of his parents noticed him missing. His new baby brother was expected any day and he had not wanted to disturb his mother. His father had not been home and even if he had been Maitimo would have hesitated before telling Fëanaro of Makalaurë's disappearance. Fëanaro brooked no disobedience and leaving the family home without permission was certainl to earn his displeasure. While he was unlikely to be overly concerned with Makalaurë roaming the streets of Tirion, he would have been very irate with the thought of him being late for dinner. So Maitimo had taken it upon himself to locate his missing younger brother.

It had seemed simple enough. He remembered the streets of Tirion from the time he had spent there as a youngster. But the city seemed to have grown in the years he had been away and Makalaurë had not been where he had expected him; in the great square before the tower of Mindon.

Maitimo climbed into a tree to give the situation further thought. The light of Laurelin was waning and Telperion was waxing. He would have to be home soon or face dire consequences at the hands of his father. While passersby looked up in surprise at the strange, red crested bird perched above the street, Maitimo considered what to do next. He could return home and inform Nerdanel of the situation. His mother would send friends and associates to search for Makalaurë. They were certain to find him before Maitimo could. But if he told his mother, there was a good chance his father would discover the situation as well and Maitimo did not want his younger brother to suffer his father's displeasure.

While he was debating what to do, a clear, pure song reached his ears. The singer had an unmistakable voice.

'Makalaurë,' whispered Maitimo, grinning from ear to ear. The music came from down the hill. Without hesitation, he dropped to the street, startling a pair of women who were making their way home from the market. He paused to help steady their baskets and retrieve several pieces of fruit they had dropped. Flashing a winning smile, he rushed away before they could either scold or thank him.

He followed the song through the streets, the voice getting steadily louder, until he came to a large park in the midst of the city. His brother's voice was now joined by others as he sang the chorus of a tune that was old before the Elves had come to the Blessed Realm.

Following the winding paths, Maitimo made his way past nodding flowers and ornate sculptures. He found Makalaurë seated upon the grass, playing the harp Mahtan had made for him. A ring of children surrounded him. They were enthralled by his music, their faces reflecting pure delight.

They were taking such pleasure from the song that Maitimo was reluctant to disturb them, so he remained in the background, standing out of Makalaurë's line of sight and waited for the song to end.

He marveled at the way his brother's fingers danced over the harp strings. Makalaurë played the harp as though it was an extension of his own body rather than a thing separate from him. His effortless skill, Maitimo knew, came from endless practice, for his brother was always playing and when he could not play he would sing. He understood this, but the way Makalaurë could focus so much of his attention upon one thing for such great lengths of time confounded him. He supposed Makalaurë was compelled to play in the same manner their father was compelled to create. It seemed that everyone except Maitimo was capable of such concentration. He liked to say this lack of focus was a lucky thing for his family for it often left him to remind the others of unimportant details such as food and rest. Secretly, this inability to concentrate troubled him to no end, but he would not think to burden his younger brother with his fear.

Then there was the reaction of the people who listened to his music. Makalaurë, Maitimo knew, enjoyed an audience.

He examined the faces of the children in the crowd, wondering if he would recognize any of them. There were several who seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not put a name to them. They were plainly enjoying his brother's music. When the chorus came, they all joined in, raising their voices in song. It was interesting to watch them, their expressions unguarded as they sang for the sheer joy of it. One girl in particular caught his attention. She was on the brink of womanhood and while not the prettiest girl he had ever seen, or even the prettiest in the small group, her voice was sweet and true. Her face, framed by dark hair, beamed with pleasure as she sang and clapped her hands in time to the music.

Then she noticed his scrutiny and her voice faltered. She gave him a questioning look, at though she could not imagine why he was not singing along with the rest. Maitimo suddenly realized he was staring. Mindful he had made her uncomfortable, he forced a pleasant smile to his lips. The girl must have decided he was friendly, for she returned his smile, the expression lighting her face.

Heat rose in Maitimo's cheeks and he quickly turned his attention elsewhere. There were no girls his own age in his father's retinue. It was rather pleasantly disconcerting to find so many of them in Tirion. It was even more unsettling to discover his reaction to them.

Confused and embarrassed, he examined the other people. Several of the girls took note of his attention. He gave each of them a quick smile then quickly looked away, but it was too late. One by one the voices dropped out of the chorus as the children stared at Maitimo and whispered to each other.

The music stopped.

'Hello, Maitimo, would you care to join us?' said Makalaurë. If he was annoyed by his brother's interruption, he gave no sign of it.

An air of expectation hung over the little park. Maitimo felt rather awkward to find everyone's attention focused upon him.

'Maybe tomorrow, brother,' he said, ignoring the forest of whispering voices. 'We are expected at home.'

'I have to go now,' Makalaurë announced as he leapt to his feet. A chorus of protests erupted from the assembled children.

'He can return tomorrow!' Maitimo cried over the jeers and catcalls as he picked up Makalaurë's harp. His words were met with the grudging, unhappy expressions of children who recognize an adult's lies. It was a very strange sensation to suddenly be granted that level of authority, but as he walked through the park, his younger brother as his side, Maitimo decided he enjoyed it.

'Who were those people?' he asked, wondering if his brother could tell him the names of the children.

'I know not,' shrugged Makalaurë. 'They were all there playing when I arrived. May I go back tomorrow, Maitimo, please?'

'We shall see,' said Maitimo noncommittally as he shifted his grip upon the harp. He had been hoping Makalaurë could have put names to some of the girls and was surprised at his disappointment when his younger brother could not.

'What is it?' he asked, for Makalaurë was frowning.

'You sound just like Arassë,' said Makalaurë accusingly. Arassë, a woman in Fëanoro's retinue, had often minded the two boys when their parents had been otherwise busy. She had always made casual promises to return to a favourite place or to conduct a much loved activity, but she had followed through so seldom that her promises rung hollow with the brothers.

'Well, I am nearly of age,' said Maitimo grandly, hiding his dismay at being compared to Arassë.

Makalaurë shot him a look so full of hurt and betrayal that he instantly repented his words.

'We are expected at Grandfather Finwë's table soon,' he added.

'Oh,' said Makalaurë uncomfortably. 'I forgot.'

Maitimo shook his head but said nothing. It was hardly surprising. Makalaurë would lose track of everything when he played.

'It is of no consequence,' he said, shifting the harp again. He wondered why Mahtan had made the instrument so large. It was far too heavy for a child of Makalaurë's age to carry for any length of time. 'Perhaps you can sing and play for Grandfather Finwë this evening.'

Makalaurë's eyes widened with excitement. 'Do you think father will allow it?' he whispered.

Maitimo thought of the rapt faces of the children in the park. Fëanaro may not understand his younger son's all encompassing love of music and poetry, but he was more than content to bask in the reflected glory of Makalaurë's talent. 'I am certain he will insist upon it,' he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Lindórië walked home with her younger brother, Tiris

Lindórië walked home with her younger brother, Tiris. They were late, but the hour was the last thing on her mind. Even her little brother's complaints barely registered on her consciousness, for her thoughts, normally occupied by colours and fabrics and embroidery stitches, were filled with a young man with fiery hair.

'Was he not the best singer you have ever heard, sister?' asked Tiris.

Lindórië shrugged noncommittally.

'It was too bad that adult had to come and ruin it all,' said Tiris crossly.

'He was not quite an adult,' said Lindórië, furrowing her brow and earning a sharp look from Tiris.

'Well I don't care how old he was, he still ruined everything!' said Tiris hotly.

'I wonder who he was?' said Lindórië while contemplating what sort of threads she would use for his hair if she were to fashion an image of him.

'The Singer?' said Tiris.

'No, the adult,'' said Lindórië, completely ignoring her previous statement. 'Did he not have the most amazing hair?'

This was met with a snort of disgust.

'You like him,' said Tiris in disbelief.

'What?' asked Lindórië, shaken out of her reverie by her brother's harsh tone of voice.

'The red-haired adult who took the Singer away. You like him,' said Tiris accusingly.

'Well…I…' stammered Lindórië. She thought of the way the flame haired ellon's gaze had lingered on her and the way he had flushed when he knew she had noticed him.

'You're in love with him,' Tiris shouted.

'I am not!' cried Lindórië, glancing around the street. The pedestrians were watching them with amused, knowing expressions.

'You are too!' shouted Tiris.

'Tiris, be reasonable,' said Lindórië, dropping her voice and trying to sound mature. 'I do not even know his name. How could I be in love with him?'

Tiris frowned, deep in thought.

'You're in love with his hair,' he finally said.

'With his hair,' Lindórië echoed flatly.

'Yes. You're in love with red hair,' said Tiris, somewhat weakly as his sister was no longer angry.

They jogged homewards, Telperion's silver light growing ever stronger as Laurelin faded.

'We're late,' sighed Lindórië. 'Mother will be angry.'

'Not as angry as she is going to be when I tell her you're in love,' said Tiris.

'With someone's hair,' added Lindórië sardonically.

Elnaira paced the immaculately clean floors of her home high upon the hill of Tuna. The table was set and all of the food laid out in perfect proportions, but there was no one but her to partake of the carefully prepared food.

It was not so much the desertion which irritated her as the unannounced way in which it had happened. Elnaira had taken great care to select the freshest fish from docks and had prepared it herself in the careful, painstaking way her mother-in-law had shown her after scouring the markets for all of the proper ingredients, some of which were very rare, and carefully harvesting the proper herbs from her garden. The entire day had been a trial. Elnaira had never been fond of shopping and the ingredient list had taken her to all of the markets in Tirion. Cooking was far from Elnaira's best-loved activity but she had lavished hours in the kitchen. The dish, a favourite of her husband, was best served piping hot, but all of her efforts were put to waste as there was no one to eat it except for her.

She sighed as she examined the table. It seemed a shame that no one should partake of the painstakingly prepared meal at all, so she seated herself at the empty table. No sooner had the first sip of wine passed her lips than the front door of the house opened and two sets of light footsteps crossed the threshold.

Elnaira sat back, her hands folded delicately upon her lap, and waited. The footfalls grew steadily closer. There was a whispered conversation just outside of the room.

'Come in,' she said calmly. 'Eat before the food is cold.'

Slowly and with obvious reluctance, her two children entered the room. They both wore guilty expressions, fully expecting to be scolded. Both looked surprised and then relieved to discover the absence of their father.

'Wash your hands, Tiris,' Elnaira said. 'They are filthy.'

Tiris immediately bounded out of the room.

Elnaira looked at her daughter. Lindórië flushed and looked away.

'I trust your hands are clean,' she said. 'Be seated.'

Lindórië smiled and visibly relaxed. She took her customary place and waited.

'You found the threads you wanted?' asked Elnaira.

Lindórië's mouth dropped open. Elnaira guessed she had forgotten about them. This was incredibly strange as Lindórië's most absorbing interest was embroidery. She knew in that instant that something odd had to have happened.

'I did not find them, no,' said Lindórië, recovering.

Elnaira examined her daughter closely. Lindórië smiled nervously, then looked at her plate with exaggerated attention. She wished her mother was not so perceptive.

'Did Tiris behave?' Elnaira asked.

'Mmm?' asked Lindórië, as though she did not understand the question.

'Did Tiris pick a fight with the other boys?' said Elnaira.

'No! Not at all,' Lindórië laughed.

Elnaira's eyes narrowed.

'Then where were you and why were you late?' she asked, keeping her voice calm.

'We were in the park with the other children,' said Lindórië. Elnaira noted the slightest hesitation in her voice.

'Which other children?' asked Elnaira calmly.

'Mostly the children who are always there,' shrugged Lindórië. 'Where is father?'

Elnaira paused; Lindórië's evasiveness had roused her suspicions.

'He was summoned to counsel with Lord Nolofinwë,' said Elnaira. 'What were you doing in the park?'

'Lindórië was falling in love!' called Tiris as he bounded into the room, his face and hands gleaming.

At this astonishing news Elnaira turned to her daughter, who scowled darkly at her younger brother. But before Elnaira could question further, Tiris burst out. 'There was a boy in the park, mother. He had a harp and he could sing better than Melian!'

Elnaira turned to her son in astonishment. 'You have never heard Melian sing, Tiris; neither have I. She vanished long before I was born.'

'I know,' said Tiris as he hopped into his chair and dragged it towards the table, the wood scraping across the floor. 'But if I ever heard Melian sing, I think this boy would sound better.'

Elnaira nodded to her son and took a sip of wine. 'Do you know who this boy was, Lindórië?' she asked.

'No mother,' she replied. 'But Tiris is right. He is the best singer I have ever heard.'

'So is that where you were?' Elnaira asked, hiding her relief that there had not been a fight. 'In the park listening to this unknown boy sing?'

'Yes, and we would still be there if not been for that adult,' said Tiris.

'What adult?' said Elnaira, hoping for some clue to solve the mystery.

'He was not quite an adult although he was very tall,' Lindórië chimed in, a faraway expression on her face. 'And he had the most extraordinary hair. Oh, mother, you should have seen it. It glowed like a flame!'

'His hair was on fire?' Elnaira directed the question to Tiris, but Lindórië answered. 'Oh, no. It was red.'

'He took the Singer away,' said Tiris sulkily.

'I think they were brothers,' Lindórië offered.

Elnaira's mouth suddenly went dry.

'We there anything else unusual about these boys?' she asked. 'What were they wearing?'

'Their shirts were embroidered with an eight pointed star,' Lindórië answered. 'It was like Lord Nolofinwë's symbol but far more colourful.'

Elnaira sighed. The two boys in the park had to be the sons of Fëanaro. That, at least, explained Alyanér's absence. Fëanaro had returned to Tirion and life for Nolofinwë and his supporters would become complicated.

'Is something wrong, Mother?' asked Lindórië.

'No,' said Elnaira, forcing herself to sound unconcerned. 'But we should eat before the food grows cold.'

'What of Father?' asked Tiris.

'He shall eat later,' said Elnaira.


	3. Chapter 3

Lindórië lay upon her bed and watched the flickering shadows cast by Telperion's silver light dance upon the walls and ceiling of her room. The same shadows that had lulled her to rest for as long as she could remember gave no comfort. How could she have forgotten her embroidery threads when she had gone out with the express purpose of finding them? Her current project, a small tapestry of a deer standing at a pond, would have to wait until she found a particular shade of blue for the water. She could not understand how she could have become so distracted that she had forgotten it. But her mother had insisted she bring Tiris with her and Tiris had wheedled her into stopping at the park and then the boy with the harp had started to sing and she had completely lost track of time until the young ellon had arrived.

Her thoughts became uncharacteristically unfocused as visions of the fiery haired youth danced across her mind's eye. She wondered who he was. Her mother had seemed to guess but was unwilling to speak of it, which was very unusual. Her reticence peaked Lindórië's curiosity; why had Mother refused to mention his name? Had he somehow earned the disapproval of their King? It seemed unlikely; he was far too young to have done anything horribly wrong. Besides, if he had, Lindórië was confident she would have heard of it. In Tirion, any infamous deed and its perpetrator were sure to be well known.

Her mind raced, imagining what possible nefarious deeds the fiery-haired youth may have done. If only she knew his name! Perhaps she would find out tomorrow when her father was home.

That raised another mystery, where was her father? Alyanér was one of Nolofinwë's counselors. He had never been so long at a meeting. Something of grievous importance must have occurred. Although she could not begin to guess what had transpired, a tight knot of anticipation formed in her throat.

This, of course, was assuming her father was at still at the council. He might be busy sculpting. Lindórië chided herself for expecting something amiss. She was being, as her mother called it, melodramatic.

But why had her mother been so nervous?

She rolled onto her side and stared out the window, unwilling to guess at the maddeningly secret motives of adults. The leaves rustled in the breeze, singing a lullabye. Lindórië should have been able to rest, but whenever her mind began to slip into memory, the image of the red-haired youth would forth spring, unbidden, fully awakening her.

'Come to bed.'

Her mother's voice was directly below her window. Lindórië was instantly alert and about to protest that she was in bed when her father replied. 'I shall come soon, but first I would take in the beauty of the garden.'

Lindórië hardly dared to breathe. She knew it was rude to eavesdrop but she strained her ears to catch her parents' conversation.

Her mother's sigh was barely audible.

'Council was trying?' she asked.

Her parents were silent for so long Lindórië thought they had left the bench beneath her window. She was surprised to hear her father speak.

'More trying than it has been in a very long time; Finwë's heir has returned to Tirion.' His voice was as grim as Lindórië had ever heard it, worse than the day Tiris had spilled turpentine over their mother's paintings.

There was another pause in the conversation and Lindórië strained her ears to catch any sound.

'You do not seem surprised,' her father finally said.

'Indeed, I had guessed as much,' Elnaira admitted. 'Lindórië and Tiris came home late carrying tales of a magnificent boy singer and his red headed brother. It was easy to guess who they were and that explained why you were late.'

'You are worried by this,' Alyanér said.

'All of Nolofinwë's advisors should be worried. Fëanaro and his followers are no friends of ours and the King will do nothing to reign in their excesses.'

'That is true, but there is something more troubling you. What is it?' Alyanér insisted.

Elnaira paused. Lindórië could picture her pursed lips in disapproval.

'It is likely nothing of concern, but Lindórië seemed rather taken by the eldest.'

Lindórië, all alone in her room, felt the heat of a blush rising to her cheeks. It was a struggle to not call out a denial, but her parents' conversation would end the instant she revealed she was awake and aware of it.

'That is an unpleasant surprise,' said Alyanér, his voice dark.

'It is hardly unexpected,' said Elnaira. 'She is arriving at the age where she will notice the young ellons.'

'True,' said Alyanér in a manner which left no doubt he found the entire idea distasteful. 'And were it anyone but Maitimo…'

Maitimo? That must be his name. Lindórië pictured him standing behind the harpist. It was certainly a fitting name, but the son of Fëanaro? She should dismiss him from her mind this very instant.

But Maitimo proved impossible to banish. His image was clearly imprinted upon her mind. Her lips formed the syllables of his name. It took an act of will to slow her rapidly beating heart and attend to her parents' conversation. And when she did she discovered, to her dismay, that the discussion had continued without her being aware of it.

'…I doubt she is ready,' her mother was saying. 'And it would not do to have her make the request before she has reached the necessary level of skill. Only the most gifted are selected to serve. Lindórië is talented, but if she lacks the knowledge of basic tasks she will not properly benefit from Vairë's teaching.'

Once again Lindórië's heart leapt up and pounded in her chest. Her parents were considering sending her to Vairë? To be one of the Valië's handmaidens was Lindórië's most fervent wish. She had asked for this since she had first learned to thread a needle but had always been told she was not yet accomplished enough for such an honour. All thoughts of the red haired Maitimo vanished as she literally held her breath and strained her ears to hear over the thud of her rapidly beating heart. Once again the conversation had continued without her.

'…give her something to work towards. It should focus her mind,' said Alyanér.

'You mean it should direct her thoughts away from ellons,' said Elnaira dryly. 'It cannot be so forever, husband.'

'It does not need to be forever,' said Alyanér. 'It need only be until Fëanaro decides Tirion can no longer contain him. When he departs, his family will undoubtedly accompany him. I shall attend to it first thing the next Cycle.'

'Say nothing to Lindórië about the true reason for the consultation,' said Elnaira. 'Remember forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest. Now come to bed.'

There was no more conversation and when Lindórië dared to peer out of her window, the silver-lit garden was empty.


	4. The Interview

The time of the Mingled light of the Two Trees had just passed when Alyanér led Lindórië to Nolofinwë's home. It was raining. The light reflected off the clouds and shone through the mists until the air glowed and Tirion seemed a construction of light rather than one of stone and wood.

Lindórië's mind was as hazy as the air. Pragmatic by nature, she knew she was far too young and inexperienced to serve Vairë; only the most skilled and talented embroiderers and weavers were selected. But a small, irrational part of her fervently hoped she would be chosen in spite of her youth while the larger part of her mind worried she would make a fool out of herself before Nolofinwë's wife.

She was so distracted that she continued walking when her father abruptly stopped.

Alyanér adjusted the hood of his cloak, scattering raindrops around him. 'You have your best work?' he asked.

Lindórië nodded, her head bobbing up and down like a nervous chicken, and patted the thick, well oiled leather bag that hung over her shoulder. Several of her projects, both finished and incomplete, lay neatly folded inside it.

'Good,' Alyanér said absently. 'You are old enough that I trust I do not have to remind you of your manners.'

Lindórië's head trembled back and forth.

'Of course I do not,' her father continued.

He led her around a corner and they came to Nolofinwë's home. The door was wide open in spite of the rain and a steady procession of people made their way in and out of the house.

Lindórië had been here before, but always as her parent's daughter. This was the first time she would visit for reasons of her own. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she climbed the stairs and followed her father through the doors.

Lady Anairë's rooms were in the back, private part of the house. They passed through wide corridors decorated with magnificent tapestries and sculptures. Lindórië's spirits sank as she examined the wall hangings. Even her best efforts were no match for the skill with which these were wrought. Her heart was in her shoes by the time Alyanér motioned her to stop in front of a large set of double doors.

'Here you are, Lindórië,' he said. Then he noticed her downcast expression. 'What is wrong, daughter? Lady Anairë is not so fierce.'

'I know, Father,' she began.

The door opened without warning, forcing Lindórië and her father to leap out of the way. Nolofinwë strode into the corridor. He towered above both of them.

'Good morrow to you, Alyanér,' he said. 'I trust you have come for the council? It is set to begin immediately.'

'Yes, of course,' said Alyanér.

'This must be your daughter,' Nolofinwë said.

'Yes, this is Lindórië,' said Alyanér, gently nudging her forward. 'She is here to see your lady wife, if it is convenient.'

'Of course it is,' said Nolofinwë, smiling warmly. Lindórië clutched the bag to her chest and attempted to return the expression, but her efforts resembled a grimace more than a smile.

'We…that is my wife and I, were wondering if she might be skilled enough at embroidery to be considered as one of Vairë's handmaidens,' said Alyanér.

'A high calling indeed,' said Nolofinwë. 'Go in, Lindórië. Anairë will see you presently.

'There is much that needs to be discussed,' he continued, turning to Alyanér. 'We shall have need of your wisdom today.'

Before Lindórië could protest Nolofinwë and her father had disappeared around a corner, leaving her alone in the hallway. She was sorely tempted to simply make her way back home. After all, it seemed horribly impolite to barge into Anairë's private quarters without an invitation. Then again, it would be equally impolite to miss the appointment without explanation. Although, given Nolofinwë's apparent lack of knowledge of her reason for being there, Lindórië was no longer certain there _was_ an appointment.

The door suddenly opened. A regal woman stood framed in the doorway. Lindórië stared up at her as a rabbit stares at a snake. Nolofinwë's wife was quite tall.

'I thought there was someone here,' she said. 'Come in, Lindórië?'

Lindórië managed a quick, grave nod. With mumbled thanks she followed Anairë into her private suite of rooms.

Anairë's workroom was large and airy. A wide, open window looked upon a private garden. A chair stood by the window, a large tapestry mounted on a wooden stand before it. A basket overflowing with colourful threads rested on the floor next to the chair. Neatly arranged shelves filled with cloth, threads and other supplies lined the walls.

Anairë sat down and examined Lindórië gravely. Lindórië, nervous under her scrutiny, scuffed one foot upon the floor and stared at the ground.

'Please take a chair and place it next to mine,' said Anairë.

Lindórië glanced about. There was another chair half way across the room. She immediately bounded towards it but when she picked it up, she found it too awkward to carry both the chair and her sack. The bag dropped, spilling its contents across the marble floor. Face blazing, Lindórië dropped the chair and fell to her knees, jamming the cloth and threads back into the sack.

'This is lovely.'

Lindórië's heart leapt into her mouth. Anairë had retrieved one of her works and was examining it minutely. Leaving several skeins of threads upon the floor, Lindórië picked up the chair and set it next to Anairë's. Without a word she seated herself and waited for judgement.

'How long has it been since you began to embroider, Lindórië?' asked Anairë.

'My mother began to teach me as soon as I could thread a needle,' said Lindórië, her voice barely a whisper.

'Elnaira is a painter, is she not?' asked Anairë.

'Yes, My Lady,' said Lindórië. 'Embroidery is much like painting, only with threads instead of pigments.'

She flushed, having spoken out of turn. 'At least that is what my mother tells me,' she added.

'Your mother is correct,' said Anairë, smiling warmly.

The corners of Lindórië's lips twitched upwards in a reflexive echo of the expression, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Chewing upon her lower lip, she stared in dismay at the work in Anairë's hands. The stitches were poorly chosen and badly executed; some were too long, others to short and yet others too thick. The colours did not blend the way she had intended. This could not be an example of her best work, yet she could remember being quite pleased with it when she had selected it. Lindórië groaned inwardly. The shoddy workmanship was bad enough. The fact that she had considered it well made was what truly made her cringe. She should not have brought it. She wished a different project had fallen into Anairë's hands but it was not her place to say so.

'Is there any thing else you would care to show me?' asked Anairë, handing the work back to Lindórië.

Lindórië nodded her head. She almost snatched the offending work from Anairë's hand and jammed it deep into the sack. Without saying a word she rummaged through the bag, pulling projects half way out, rejecting them as unworthy and stuffing them back in.

'May I see that one, please?'

Lindórië startled. The unfinished picture of the deer at the pond was in her hand. There were only a few stitches missing. If only she had not allowed Tiris to distract her from her errand to purchase thread yesterday, she might have finished it.

Anairë was smiling pleasantly and holding out her hand for the fabric. Sighing deeply, Lindórië pulled it from the bag and gave it to her.

'It is not complete,' she explained.

'So it is your most recent work?' asked Anairë gently.

'Yes,' Lindórië whispered sadly. She had just noticed a misplaced stitch in the border.

Anairë took the embroidery and examined it, front and back, in minute detail while Lindórië held her breath and waited.

'Did you conceive the picture yourself? Or did you mother draw it for you?' asked Anairë.

'It is my own work,' said Lindórië sadly. She wished she had asked her mother to draw it for her. The image undoubtedly would have been of far better quality.

'The composition it quite good,' said Anairë. It was so different from what Lindórië had been expecting to hear that she could think of nothing to say.

'The threads and stitches are well chosen,' Anairë continued and Lindórië allowed herself the tiniest sliver of hope.

'You show great promise, but your skill is in need of development,' Anairë concluded.

Lindórië's heart sank to her toes.

'See this stitch here?' she asked, pointing a long, slender finger to a leaf done in satin stitch. 'It needs to be a bit longer. There is too much tension in these stitches. If you will, I can demonstrate some techniques to you.'

'I would be most grateful,' said Lindórië. The words had to fight their way around the lump of disappointment in her throat.

Anairë went to the shelves, leaving Lindórië to compose herself. She returned with two pieces of cloth and a small basket filled with embroidery supplies. Within a few minutes she was demonstrating some of the more complex stitches to Lindórië, who listened and watched attentively before trying to mimic her.

'Lindórië, does your family know Histilomë?'

'Not personally, no Lady, but I know of her,' said Lindórië. Histilomë was one of the best embroiderers of the Noldor. She had spent many years working with Vairë. In spite of her talents, which earned her great respect among her people, she was not active in Noldorin society, preferring her threads and her garden to feasts and dancing.

'It was she who showed me these stitches,' said Anairë. 'She seldom teaches for it is not in her temperament to explain a thing more than once. But she is counted among the best of our people. If you and your parents are willing, I shall ask if she is willing to take you as a student.'

'Would you?' breathed Lindórië. She could scarcely believe her ears. Histilomë was known to be a difficult taskmistress, but those who studied with her were among the most skilled in embroidery.

The door crashed open before Anairë could answer and two young ellons charged into the room, unannounced. They were soaked to the skin, their hair matted to the sides of their heads.

Needle poised over the fabric, Lindórië froze, her heart in her throat and wondered at the intrusion. Findekáno was quite familiar, although she had seldom seen him appear less than perfect. The other intruder was taller and his rain darkened hair was unmistakably red.

"Hello, Findekáno. Good day to you, Maitimo,' said Anairë, barely glancing up from her work.

'Hello, Mother! You are as lovely as ever,' said Findekáno brightly as he walked across the room, his boots squelching on the marble.

'Good day to you, Lady Anairë,' said Maitimo, who had thought to remove his boots before entering his aunt's private chambers.

'I trust your Lady mother is well?' Anairë asked politely.

'She is well, thank-you, or at least as well as can be expected with her time so near,' said Maitimo, his brow darkening with worry. 'She sends her greetings.'

'Perhaps I should visit,' said Anairë thoughtfully.

Maitimo looked uncomfortable. 'Of course,' he said. 'I am certain she would be glad of your company. Father rarely leaves her side.'

'As he should not,' said Anairë, nodding. 'Perhaps I shall wait until after the babe is born.'

'As you see fit, My Lady,' said Maitimo, relieved Anairë had understood his unspoken message. Nerdanel would gladly welcome her sister-in-law, but Fëanaro would be less than pleased to see the wife of his despised half brother.

'The midday meal will not be ready for some time, but I expect you can find something to eat in the kitchens,' said Anairë.

'That is most generous of you, Lady Anairë,' said Maitimo gratefully.

'But we have already been to the kitchens,' said Findekáno. 'We were hoping you had the time, if you were so generously inclined, to undertake an errand for us.'

'Yes, Findekáno?' Anairë asked, now looking at her son in a fond but somewhat exasperated manner.

'Yes,' said Findekáno smoothly. 'Maitimo and I were examining grandfather's garden when Maitimo's shirt experienced a brief but unfortunate encounter with a tree branch. He…that is I was wondering if you would be so kind as to mend it? If you have the time, of course.'

Anairë wordlessly extended her hand. To Lindórië's unending dismay Maitimo pulled off his shirt revealing a smooth, well-muscled chest. With a sheepish grin, handed it to Anairë.

Anairë examined the long, jagged tear in the fabric. Lindórië, meanwhile, did not know where to look. She continued her embroidery but immediately stabbed herself with the needle. She quickly thrust her finger into her mouth to keep blood from dripping onto the cloth and glanced up to find Maitimo examining her. Blushing furiously, she turned her attention to the torn garment instead.

'This will take some work,' Anairë said. 'Lindórië, will you please bring my sewing basket? It is on the shelf, next to the white fabric.'

Lindórië fled across the room, the injured finger still in her mouth. Confronted with the heavily laden shelf, she suddenly realized she had no idea what she had come for. With the feeling of at least one pair of eyes boring into her back, she stared at the shelves in utter dismay, attempting to retrace the series of events that had led her there.

'_Be calm_!' she told herself sternly, _'Or you will make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have!'_

Anairë and Findekáno were speaking, but she barely heard them. Her eyes fell upon a basket filled with silver pins, needles and spools of thread. It was beside a neatly folded stack of white cloth.

Grabbing the sewing basket, she made her way back to Anairë, being careful not to look at either Maitimo or Findekáno.

'I trust the two of you were not examining your grandfather's garden from the treetops?' Anairë asked her son.

The slightest shadow of guilt clouded Findekáno's features before he smiled broadly and said 'Not from the top of the trees, no.'

Anairë was familiar with Findekáno's habit of twisting words. The boys had been climbing trees and had likely been running along the branches until one or both of them fell. The sole reason they had not been at the very treetops was because the branches were too slender to support their weight. She looked to Maitimo to confirm her suspicions. To her amazement, he did not seem to be paying any heed to the conversation. Instead, his full attention was riveted on Lindórië. The girl seemed more than aware of his intense scrutiny. She sat hunched in her chair, holding the basket before her as though she was trying to hide behind it. Her expression was one of utter bewilderment.

'This will take some time,' said Anairë briskly. 'Findekáno, Maitimo, I hope you will excuse us. Findekáno, in the meantime perhaps you could find a dry shirt for Maitimo to wear.'

Findekáno signalled to Maitimo that they should go. To his surprise, his cousin ignored him. He was forced to slap him on the arm to get his attention.

Maitimo followed reluctantly with several glances over his shoulder.

'And take off your boots!' she cried after them.

'It was good of your mother to offer to fix my shirt,' said Maitimo when they were in the corridor.

'Your mother has done the same for me,' said Findekáno. 'Remember the time you decided to climb Mindon?'

'I decided?' asked Maitimo dryly.

'Almost got both of us killed, you did,' continued Findekáno.

'Indeed,' said Maitimo, who had a very different memory of whose suggestion the ridiculous stunt had been.

'I am happy you accept responsibility for it,' said Findekáno gravely while Maitimo snorted and shook his head.

'Findekáno?' he asked.

'Mmm?'

'Who was the elleth?'

'The what?' asked Findekáno.

'The elleth,' said Maitimo. Findekáno had an eye for pretty elleths. He must have been aware of that one. 'The one sitting beside your mother.'

'I think she is the daughter of one of my father's counselors,' Findekáno said dismissively. 'What of her?'

'Nothing, I was just wondering if you knew her name,' said Maitimo crossly.

'It is a simple matter to discover the answer,' Findekáno said lightly. 'Simply go back and ask.'

'No!' said Maitimo, remembering the expression on the girl's face when he had removed his shirt. At the time it had been amusing. Now it was embarrassing.

Findekáno examined his cousin narrowly. 'I could go back and ask,' he offered.

'No,' said Maitimo in a calmer voice. He guessed that the elleth would know it was not Findekáno who was actually interested in learning her name. Judging by the teasing expression on Findekáno's face, he strongly suspected his cousin would phrase the request as 'Maitimo wants to know…' This was worse than going to ask her name himself.

'There must be other young elleths in Tirion,' he said.

'Indeed there are,' said Findekáno. 'But you are in need of proper attire before you meet any of them lest you scandalize them.'

Maitimo thought of the elleths's reaction to his lack of shirt and groaned inwardly. He had not made the best impression. He was loath to reveal his thoughts to his cousin. Judging by the smirk on Findekáno's face it would earn a great deal of teasing. Instead he smiled without comment and let the subject pass.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Anairë shook her head as the two young ellons left the room.

'Boys will be boys,' she said fondly.

Lindórië was of the opinion that neither Findekáno nor Maitimo, especially not Maitimo, were anything other than adults. But it would be rude to disagree with her hostess, so she nodded in agreement and remained silent.

Anairë was wise enough to know the reason for Lindórië's distress. It would be better for everyone if she stopped her fascination for Maitimo before she came to grief.

'Look, at the tear, Lindórië, and tell me how you would mend it,' she said, handing the shirt to her.

Lindórië took the shirt, her hands trembling only a little as she accepted it. The fabric still held the warmth of Maitimo's skin.

'It is a clean tear,' she said, running her finger along the length of the rent. 'It should be easily mended.'

'The repair will need to be invisible,' Anairë said, hoping Lindórië would not ask the reason for this. Anairë suspected Fëanaro would be in a terrible mood. A ripped shirt might be enough to set off his volatile temper and she did not want his ire directed at Maitimo, whom she still regarded as a child in need of what little protection she could give.

Lindórië looked at her questioningly then went back to her examination of the shirt.

'It might be possible to work several threads into the warp and weft and repair the weave itself, but the repair would take a great deal of time,' she finally said.

'There is another way,' said Anairë. 'Give me the shirt and I will show you.'

Lindórië handed the garment back to Anairë and waited.

'This is one of the first techniques Histilomë will teach you,' she said as she threaded a silver needle with a thread that matched the fabric of the shirt. 'She believes you should know how to make, care for and repair cloth before you learn to embellish it.'

Lindórië nodded and leaned in to see better.

'It has been some time since I saw Maitimo last. He is growing into a fine young ellon,' said Anairë, noting the flush that rose to Lindórië's cheeks at the mention of her nephew's name.

'It is inevitable that every young elleth in Tirion will pursue him.' she continued as she anchored the thread and began to mend the shirt with short, neat stitches. Lindórië stirred but wisely kept her silence.

'They certain pursue Findekáno,' said Anairë. 'He always seems to bring home trinkets given to him by young elleths. It is a shame for a great deal of thought and craft goes into their making, but he values them not. I suppose the elleths are attempting to attract his attention, but Findekáno is young and unmindful of such things. It is unfortunate, but that is the way of young ellons.'

She sighed, lowered the mending and watched the rain falling in the garden.

'I only wish the elleths would spend lavish less time and effort on these tokens. He is not ready to choose, and when he does he can only select one.'

Lindórië thought upon Anairë's words. It was plain she found the situation deeply embarrassing. It was equally obvious she had not only been speaking solely of Findekáno.

She demonstrated the stitch several times more then offered the shirt to Lindórië.

'Do you think you can manage the stitch?' she asked.

'I can but try,' said Lindórië. The first stitch was an unmitigated failure, being too large, too loose and far too obvious. Lindórië carefully picked it out and tried again, with much better results.

Soon the tear was completely mended. Lindórië trimmed the thread and gave the shirt to Anairë for inspection.

'You have done well,' Anairë said. 'I will not hesitate in recommending you to Histilomë.'

'Thank-you, My Lady,' said Lindórië.

'You may go, if you wish. Or would you rather return Maitimo's shirt to him first?'

Lindórië examined the shirt and considered. As much as she would like to see Maitimo again, it seemed ill advised in light of Anairë's advice. Then again, she may be genuinely asking Lindórië to run the errand for her, in which case it would be exceedingly rude to refuse. In fact, taking too long to answer a simple question could also be construed as rude.

'If it pleases My Lady,' she said slowly. 'I believe I should return to my home and tell my mother the good news.'

Anairë smiled and nodded and Lindórië knew she had chosen correctly. 'Certainly, my dear. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye,' said Lindórië, retrieving her sack from beneath her chair. 'And thank-you, Lady Anairë.'


	5. Chapter 5

The time of the mingled light of the Trees was just passed. Finwe, alone in his son's garden, watched the golden light of Laurelin fade and the silver light of Telperion wax ever stronger. It was highly unusual for his to be completely without company; there was always someone, either his family or his friends or one of his subjects, who seemed to be nearby.

He was visiting his eldest son. Feanaro spent little time in Tirion. The last time his eldest son had spent any time in the city of the Noldor had been when his third son was born. Tyelkormo had been barely one year old before the family was travelling again and Finwe doubted this visit would last more than a few months, Feanor was too restless for Tirion to contain him for any great length of time.

It broke Finwe's heart to see his eldest child so rarely. His grandchildren were growing up without him. Tyelkormo was nearly five years old and already had outgrown overt displays of affection. The child tolerated his grandfather's hugs, but only out of respect and a sense of duty and Finwe respected his pride too much to treat him like an infant.

There was a low rustle in the leaves. Without looking at the source of the noise, Finwe listened closer. It soon came again. Moving slowly, Finwe examined the flowers and trees of Nerdanel's garden.

There was an unmistakable flash of copper among the greenery.

'Greetings, Nelyafinwe,' said Finwe.

The rustling abruptly stopped.

'Perhaps you would care to speak to your grandfather?'

There were several moments of silence. Finwe could picture Maitimo trying to decide if he should reveal himself or attempt to continue towards the house.

Maitimo abruptly dropped out of the tree.

'Greetings, Grandfather,' he said gravely.

Finwe marvelled at the boy's dignity. He knew from experience that is was difficult to sustain a serious demeanor when one had been discovered while attempting to remain concealed. It was even more difficult with a dishevelled appearance and Maitimo was as dirty as any boy he had ever seen.

'I trust you have been well?' Finwe asked.

'Quite well, thank-you. And you, Grandfather? You look well,' said Maitimo.

Finwe refrained from commenting on Maitimo's appearance, which was bordering on disgraceful. Mud and dirt stained his clothing. Several strands of dead grass clung to his hair. His hands and most of his face were quite clean. Finwe strongly suspected he had rinsed the worst of the dirt away before returning home.

It was a pity he had not washed his clothing and hair.

'Come sit beside me,' he said.

A shadow of apprehension crossed Maitimo's face, but he obediently sat next to his grandfather.

'It is nearly time for the evening meal,' said Finwe. 'Should you not be inside?'

'I came outside to watch the mingled light of the Trees,' said Maitimo, shifting uneasily.

'It seems as though you have crawled through the garden, which is an unusual way to watch the time of mingling,' said Finwe lightly.

'I must have gotten dirty when I chased Tyelkormo through the garden earlier,' said Maitimo as he self-consciously brushed the front of his tunic.

'Then Tyelkormo is more adventuresome than I would have thought for that dirt,' Finwe pointed at a large patch of dried mud on Maitimo's sleeve, 'Is the colour of the soil in the mountains.'

Maitimo's shoulders sagged.

'I was climbing with Findekano,' he admitted quietly. Then he looked directly at Finwe and smiled brilliantly. 'You are very observant, grandfather.'

Finwe instantly recognized the flattery and was rather surprised to find himself basking in the glow of his grandson's approval. '_He is growing up far too quickly and much too far away_,' he thought to himself. '_He is almost as tall as his father_.'

'Maitimo,' he said aloud, 'If two of your followers came to you with a dispute, how would you resolve it?'

Maitimo seemed taken aback by the question.

'I do not have followers, grandfather,' he said.

Finwe thought of the dozen young men who routinely followed his eldest grandson through the streets of Tirion. The boy had followers, he did not yet recognize them as such.

'Very well, if your brothers had a dispute,' he began.

'Tyelkormo is too young for Makalaurë to fight,' Maitimo interrupted. 'He is above such disgraceful behavior.'

'I see,' said Finwe, nodding gravely. 'Very well, then, if two of your friends had a dispute and they sought your help to settle the disagreement, what would you do?'

Maitimo paused to consider. His serious expression was completely out of place with his dishevelled appearance.

'If it were truly serious, I should counsel them to seek the advice of their elders,' he said.

'_He speaks like a true politician_,' thought Finwë.

'And if it were not serious enough to present to the elders but they still requested your judgement?' asked Finwë. He fully expected Maitimo to put him off once again, but the young man's brow furrowed even further.

'I suppose I would determine the cause of the dispute and try to discover a fair compromise,' he finally said.

'And if there was no way to compromise fairly?' Finwë prodded him.

'There is always a way to compromise, grandfather,' Maitimo said, but he said it slowly and doubtfully.

'It seems you do not completely believe your own words,' said Finwë.

Maitimo shrugged helplessly.

'Maitimo, I believe you should remain in Tirion for a time,' said Finwë.

Maitimo's face brightened, then immediately clouded with doubt. 'But who will help Mother with the young ones?' he asked.

'Makalaurë is old enough to help with Tyelkormo,' said Finwë.

'Where will I stay?' asked Maitimo.

'With your grandfather, of course,' said Finwë. 'Where else would you stay?'

'Would father allow it?' asked Maitimo uncomfortably.

Finwë stifled a sigh. Fëanaro made no secret of his disdain for Indis and her children. Both Nolofinwë and Arfin had established their own households, but Findis and Lalwendë, his daughters, still lived beneath his roof.

'He will if I ask it,' said Finwë firmly.

'If you ask what, Father?' Fëanaro strode into the garden. He examined Maitimo with an air of disdain, his jaw tightening in disapproval.

'You are an utter disgrace. Go clean yourself,' he said shortly.

Maitimo scuttled away without another word.

'There are days I despair of my offspring,' sighed Fëanaro as he sank onto the bench beside his father.

Finwë bit his lips to keep them closed.

'Surely it is not as bad as all that?' he asked lightly. 'They are fine boys.'

'Possibly, but none of them share my ability,' shrugged Fëanaro. 'Makalaurë is talented enough, but his talent lies in music and poetry, not in crafting. Tyelkormo is too young to tell. And the other one.' Fëanaro shook his head in disgust. 'He would rather go haring off with his friends than do anything of worth.'

'He is young,' began Finwë.

'He is almost full grown,' Fëanaro interrupted. ' When I was his age, I was accomplished at the forge. He never completes any thing he sets his hand to. All he has to show for his efforts are a few half-finished trinkets, none of them of any quality.'

Again Finwë bit his lip, thinking of the room filled with his childrens' early crafting efforts. Fëanaro's were by far the best, but almost none of them were complete.

'Maitimo may need more time to discover his talent,' said Finwë calmly, ignoring Fëanaro's derisive snort. 'He has the makings of a good leader.'

Fëanaro scowled, drew breath to make another desultory comment but then thought better of it. This was obviously important to his father. He should not dismiss the subject out of hand.

'Leave him with me for a time. I will teach him the ways of a wise leader,' said Finwë.

'You would have your grandson but not your son?' demanded Fëanaro, his eyes flashing.

'My son,' said Finwë gravely, 'Nothing would please me more than to have you by my side here in Tirion, but you have never been happy to remain in one place. Already I see the restlessness in you. You mean to go soon.'

Fëanaro's expression softened. 'Indeed, you have it,' he said. 'Already Tirion seems too small, too constricted, too….crowded. I would go to a place empty of walls and towers, set foot upon land never trodden by the Eldar.'

'For how much longer can I expect to partake of your company?' asked Finwë sadly.

'For this evening, at least,' said Fëanaro bluffly. 'Come, father, the evening meal has been laid upon the table.'

'You will leave Maitimo with me,' said Finwë. It was not a question.

Fëanaro's eyes blazed. Then he bowed his head. 'As you wish, father,' he said gruffly.

'Good!' said Finwë. Father and son stood and went inside together.


	6. Chapter 6

Lindórië frowned at the fabric before her. Two of the edges of the finely spun cloth were securely anchored to a wooden frame. Her needle flashed in Laurelin's golden light as she fastened the lower border with quick, neat stitches.

Chewing her lips, she paused to examine her work. To her eyes, the fabric sat perfectly square upon the three sides of the frame; surely this time Histëalë would find no fault in her efforts.

She stabbed her needle into the fabric and examined her surroundings. Histeale's garden was a fine balance of colours, textures, light and shade. The individual plants were of uniform size and none of them spread beyond its allotted space.

Lindórië suspected they had been intimidated into perfect behavior.

Stretching her arms, neck and shoulders, Lindórië considered her present circumstances. She had been elated when Histëalë had first accepted her as an apprentice for the embroidery mistress seldom took students. Even the rumours and veiled hints of Histeale's severity had not damped her spirits.

Her joy had quickly dissipated once her lessons began. It was not that Histëalë was a harsh mistress. It was that she was so incredibly exacting that Lindórië despaired of ever meeting her impossibly high standards.

She had been living with Histëalë for over half a season. In that time she had learned more than she had ever thought there was to know about the various types of fabric, how each behaved and which type of threads were best suited for embroidering.

The information was of slight interest to Lindórië, whose fingers itched to be stitching rather than taking notes, but Histëalë had made it quite clear that Lindórië would not touch a skein of embroidery floss until she could recite all of the information by heart. Determined to not fail before she had so much as threaded a needle, Lindórië had placed all of her effort and concentration into mastering all of the information Histëalë could give her.

After hours spent examining the pieces of fabric in Histeale's huge collection, Lindórië could now tell which weaver had woven a piece of cloth. She could also distinguish where the raw material had been produced. Sheep raised on the slopes of the Pelori gave a heavier weight of thread than those pastured on the plains below. Linen made from flax grown nearer the Trees was glossy and smooth while that from fields farther away was coarser.

As a reward for all of her efforts, Histëalë had allowed her to fasten pieces of fabric to frames. The embroidery mistress insisted that the cloth be perfectly square and the tension exactly right before she would allow Lindórië to do so much as a single stem stitch.

Several weeks had passed and all of Lindórië's efforts had been found wanting. The fabric was either too tight or too loose or, on one memorable occasion, both. Despite her best efforts, Lindórië could not see the mistakes as Histëalë could. It was very difficult to learn when one did not see the errors.

Lindórië sighed and stared upwards into the trees. The air was completely still, but the leaves rustled overhead. Curious, she peered into the leaves, expecting to see a squirrel or some other small animal.

To her shock, a face stared back at her.

As she watched, too surprised to speak, the face grinned tentatively. Fiery hair stood in vivid contrast to the green leaves.

'Maitimo?' she whispered in disbelief, her voice unnaturally loud in the quiet garden.

'Yes,' he said. Was it her imagination or did he seem rather breathless?

Lindórië glanced around, searching for Histëalë. Although her teacher had never forbidden her visitors, Lindórië had the impression that guests outside of immediate family were considered a frivolous waste of time. She did not want to imagine how her teacher would react to discover Maitimo dangling from a tree branch in her garden. At the same time, she could hardly tell Finwë's grandson that he was not wanted.

'May I help you?' she asked.

'I hope you can,' he replied. Lindórië winced at the volume of his voice, convinced the noise must have carried to Histeale's cottage. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the house, half expecting to see Histëalë bearing down on her, her face pinched in a frown of disapproval, but the path remained blessedly empty.

'How can I be of service?' she whispered, staring up at him. Heat rose in her face as Maitimo smiled down upon her. Part of her wished he would go away. A larger part of her wondered why he had come and wished he would stay. Some of the butterflies from Histëalë's garden had somehow made their way into her stomach.

'Yes, well,' he began. 'My cousin and I were taking the air this morning when an unfortunate incident befell us.'

'Findekáno is wounded?' asked Lindórië in alarm, leaping to her feet.

'No! No. He is whole and well,' Maitimo said, frowning. 'Unfortunately the same cannot be said for my clothing.'

'Oh,' said Lindórië. Relief to learn of Findekáno's continued good health quickly gave way to bitter disillusionment. She was so disappointed she sat down.

'Pass me your shirt. I shall mend it,' she said, looking at the ground to hide her expression. She was not certain whom she was more disappointed with; Maitimo for wanting a mundane service or herself for thinking there might have been a different, more tender reason for his unexpected visit.

'Well?' she asked when no shirt was forthcoming.

'It…was not my shirt that met with misfortune,' came the reluctant reply.

Lindórië stared at the blank of cloth in front of her, face blazing.

'Hand me down your trousers, then,' she said with strained dignity. 'I shall mend them as best I may.'

The request was met with silence.

'Unless you want me to climb into the tree and sew them together while you are wearing them,' she said.

'That could be somewhat awkward,' came the reply. 'Half a moment.' He disappeared into the upper branches of the tree, leaving a trail of rustling leaves in the still air.

Lindórië picked up her needle and pretended to sew the last edge of the cloth to the embroidery frame. The rustling started again and she raised her head.

'Do not look!' Maitimo whispered urgently.

'How am I supposed to take your trousers, then?' Lindórië asked in a savage whisper.

'I shall drop them,' he said.

'No!' cried Lindórië. She stared, wild-eyed, over her shoulder at the cottage. Surely Histëalë had heard her outburst and would come to investigate. Even if she had not, the sight of a pair of trousers floating out of the tree would attract her attention.

'Do not drop them here,' Lindórië said in a quieter voice as she bent over the frame and pretended to work. 'Let them fall around the other side of the tree, out of sight of the cottage and I shall retrieve them.'

Once again the leaves rustled quietly. Lindórië listened closely, waiting for the faint sound of the garment hitting the ground.

'They are ready,' Maitimo said.

Placing her needle in the fabric, she stood, stretched and slowly walked around the tree, hoping that she appeared to be taking a short walk rather than retrieving a visiting ellon's trousers.

The garment was hanging upon the rose bush. It was as unobtrusive as a bright, red banner on the topmost tower of Mindon.

Deliberately keeping her back to the cottage, Lindórië pulled the trousers from the rosebush and examined them. There was a tear in one of the legs and the inseam was split from the level of the knee up to the crotch.

'How did you manage this?' she wondered aloud.

'I would rather not discuss it,' came the stiff answer from above.

Lindórië raised her head in the direction of Maitimo's voice.

'Do not look up!' he said urgently.

'Yes. I mean no, of course not,' she mumbled, returning her attention to the damaged piece of clothing.

'Can you repair it?' he asked, more than a hint of worry in his voice.

'It will take some time,' she said. 'The seam will be simple enough to fix, but the edges of the tear are jagged and I do not have the proper sort of thread to mend them properly. I believe this cotton is from the fields nigh to Lorien. The only thread I have available here is woolen. The two will not blend well enough to make the repair invisible.'

'It does not need to be invisible,' came the exasperated reply. 'It only needs to cover me decently.'

Lindórië froze at the implied insult. Not only did Maitimo's visit have nothing to do with romance, he thought her a substandard seamstress. She was glad that he could not see the expression of hurt pride on her face. He likely would have laughed, which would have made the situation all the worse.

'Please. There is no one else I can ask and I can hardly parade through the streets of Tirion in such condition,' he said wistfully.

A sudden rush of sympathy engulfed Lindórië. This was Finwë's grandson. Between his social position and his brilliantly coloured hair, he attracted attention wherever he went. He could not slip through the streets unnoticed and everything he did was worthy of comment by the people of Tirion. She was ashamed of her wounded pride.

'If the repair could simply last long enough for me to reach my grandfather's home, or even a friend's home where I could borrow some clothing,' he said.

'Fear not, the repair should hold for some time, so long as you do not place too much strain upon it,' said Lindórië. She took the needle from her work, cut a length of yarn and threaded it anew.

'Could you please watch the cottage?' she asked as she anchored the thread. 'I must know if Histëalë is approaching.'

'Of course,' came the reply from the tree.

The garden fell silent save for the droning of the bees among the sweetly scented flowers.

'Do you enjoy being apprenticed to Histëalë?' The question drifted down, taking Lindórië by surprise. She paused, her needle half raised.

'She is very knowledgeable,' she said as she pushed the needle through the fabric. 'I have learned a great deal from her in the short time I have been here.' She did not add that she had not actually been allowed to do any embroidery.

'There is no doubt she is, but that does not answer my question,' said Maitimo.

'You must learn a great deal from your father,' said Lindórië, jabbing the needle through the cloth with more force than necessary. 'It is said he is the most skilled and cunning of all our people.'

There was a sharp intake of breath from high in the tree.

'He undoubtedly is and it has been my privilege to I watch him at the forge many times,' said Maitimo. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, as though he was choosing his words with great care.

The garden fell silent while Lindórië attempted to puzzle out Maitimo's oblique response. It sounded as though his father had allowed him to watch, but never to actually help, much less attempt any work himself. She found it easy to sympathize with him.

'She never lets me try anything, either,' Lindórië said. The seam was finished and now she had to mend the jagged rip in the fabric. She frowned at the cloth, trying to decide which stitches were best to accomplish the repair.

'Histëalë,' Maitimo whispered.

'Yes. Who else would it be?' said Lindórië.

'No. It is Histëalë. She just appeared at the corner of the cottage and is approaching,' he hissed.

Lindórië leapt to her feet, jammed the incriminating trousers on to her chair and immediately sat down again only to realize that she had left her one and only needle in the cloth. She jumped up, fumbled to retrieve the needle with one hand while rubbing her injured posterior with the other, then sat down again just before Histëalë came into view.

The embroidery mistress wore her dark hair in a series of tight braids designed to keep it from obscuring the view of her work. Lindórië had never seen so much as a single strand of Histeale's hair out of place; she strongly suspected it would never dare move without permission.

Histëalë gracefully sat in the chair beside her pupil; her beautiful face stern.

Lindórië resisted the ridiculous urge to hide beneath her chair. She waited for her teacher to say something; a greeting, a smile or a frown, some sign of acknowledgement of Lindórië's presence.

The silence stretched longer and longer, like a thread that was reaching its breaking point. Lindórië wondered if she should be the first to speak, but she was younger and in a very much subordinate position. Etiquette dictated that she wait until she was addressed before making a sound.

She pushed the unthreaded needle into the fabric, folded her hands on her lap and waited, wondering all the while at the thoughts that were passing through Histëalë's mind.

The embroidery mistress was looking in the direction of Lindórië's abandoned work. Lindórië was certain she was silently critiquing all of the mistakes that were suddenly obvious. This stitch was minutely longer than the others and that one was just the slightest bit too tight. She watched Histëalë out of the corner of her eye, her hands firmly clasped to keep from wringing them. For all her calm outer appearance, she was certain Histëalë was wondering why she had accepted such an inadequate individual as an apprentice.

'Are you finding the heat of Laurelin particularly warm?' Histëalë suddenly asked.

'What?' squeaked Lindórië who almost jumped out of her chair at the sound of her teacher's voice. At the last moment she remembered Maitimo's trousers were hidden beneath her skirts and hurriedly sat down.

'I asked if you find the heat of Laurelin particularly warm?' Histëalë repeated. To an outsider her voice would have sounded perfectly calm. To Lindórië, there was a menace in that tranquility.

'I…I imagine…it is no warmer than it ever is,' stuttered Lindórië.

Histëalë made a slow, measured study of her pupil while Lindórië tried not to squirm with guilt. She felt an almost overwhelming desire to fall at her teacher's feet, confess that she had spent the time she should have been working on the assigned project repairing a pair of trousers belonging to Fëanaro's eldest son…in fact, he was still hiding in the tree overhead…and beg for forgiveness. It took a supreme effort of will to remain still and keep her facial expression composed.

The embroidery mistress gave a small nod. 'Shall we examine what you have accomplished, then?'

'I am afraid I did not finish,' Lindórië began, turning to the embroidery frame to hide her relief.

'You have slowed your pace. That is good. A child learns to walk before she can run,' said Histëalë.

Lindórië was dumbfounded. It was the first indication she had been given that she was working too quickly, although now that she heard it she knew she should have understood it without being told.

'Yes, Mistress,' she mumbled, ashamed of her own stupidity. 'I am afraid I still made some errors here and here.' She pointed to the uneven stitches she had first noticed when Histëalë had joined her.

'I did not mean that work, although you are correct about the mistakes,' said Histëalë. 'I meant the fabric upon your chair.'

Lindórië's mouth dropped open in shock. The leaves of the trees above her were rustling. It sounded like teeth chattering.

'I…I…' she stammered.

'Stand up,' ordered Histëalë.

With one, helpless glance at the boughs over her head, Lindórië slowly climbed to her feet, hoping against hope that Maitimo would somehow manage to sneak out of the tree and steal the incriminating trousers before Histëalë could see them.

The descendants of Finwë were brave and quick and skilled, but there was no way for Maitimo to climb out of the tree and retrieve his trousers without being noticed. After watching the interaction between Lindórië and her teacher, the very last thing in the world he wanted was to be caught without his trousers. He would almost rather face his father.

Almost.

The prospect of his father's reaction to learning his son had been discovered half naked in a garden with a girl was far from encouraging. If he were lucky, Fëanaro would only make him mine coal for the next twenty years. His mind veered away from the less pleasant fates his father could devise for him. He decided it would be best to remain silent and hidden and trust the girl to not reveal his presence.


	7. Chapter 7

'What, exactly, is that?' asked Histëalë, looking down the length of her aristocratic nose at the garment that had unexpectedly invaded her garden.

'It is a pair of trousers,' said Lindórië slowly and with great reluctance.

'A torn pair of trousers,' she added when Histëalë turned her cool, incredulous gaze upon her pupil.

'So I see. I never thought you would wear such a garment, Lindórië,' she said in disapproval.

'They are not mine,' said Lindórië quickly.

'No?' said Histëalë coldly. 'To whom do they belong, then?'

'They belong to Mai…' Lindórië began. There seemed no point in lying; it would only anger Histëalë further when she discovered the truth and there seemed no way to keep her from doing so. Then she thought of Maitimo and her words failed. There had to be some way to not mention him.

'To May?' Histëalë prompted her.

'My brother,' said Lindórië quickly. 'They belong to my brother.'

'Your brother's name is May?' asked Histëalë, raising her eyebrows.

'Begging your pardon but my brother's name is Tiris,' said Lindórië. Now that she had the idea the words rushed out quickly. 'He is quite active and occasionally tears his clothing. As I am lacking in basic skills, I thought it would be a good opportunity to practice.'

Lindórië thought she heard a sigh of relief high over her head.

'Indeed?' said Histëalë, watching her pupil suspiciously.

'Indeed,' said Lindórië firmly, looking her teacher directly in the eye.

There was a pause as Histëalë searched Lindórië's eyes for the shadow of a lie.

Lindórië met her gaze evenly. Some of her story was true; Histëalë had made it quite clear that she lacked in basic sewing skills. The true ownership of the trousers might be in question, but the thing that was most important to Histëalë and, at this moment, to Lindórië, was true.

Histëalë must have been satisfied for she nodded.

'Very well, let me see what you have done to practice your sewing,' she said, extending her hand.

With great reluctance, Lindórië handed the trousers to her teacher.

Histëalë held the garment at arm's length. She narrowly examined it while Lindórië held her breath and waited for the onslaught of criticism.

Above them, the leaves were perfectly still.

'It is not so bad as all that,' Histëalë finally said.

Lindórië could not keep her jaw from dropping open. In the three weeks she had been with her teacher, this was the closest Histëalë had come to praising her work. She felt the ridiculous urge stand up and dance for joy.

Her happiness, however, was doomed to be short lived.

'If the seam was sewn by a drunken sailor well beyond the Light of the Trees,' Histëalë continued and Lindórië's heart fell back to its usual place in the soles of her shoes.

'In a hurricane,' Histëalë added, running a dismissive finger over the hastily sewn stitches.

'While hanging upside down from the mast,' she continued as Lindórië's shoulders slumped.

'By his toes,' she finally concluded.

A lump rose in Lindórië's throat. She had only been trying to help Maitimo and it had led to her appearing as a great fool before her teacher. Histëalë was shaking her head sadly. Surely she would send Lindórië back to her parents in disgrace and take a more worthy apprentice; one who might one day have the skill to become a handmaiden of Vairë the Weaver, one who could work stitches with more care than a drunken sailor. She was so absorbed in self-recriminations that she barely heard her teacher's next words.

'Lindórië, I applaud your enthusiasm. It is good for you to practice your stitches,' said Histëalë. She cast a glance at the embroidery frame with its nearly attached fabric. 'But it would be better if you only work upon your self-assigned projects after you have completed the tasks I give you.

'And it would certainly be better if you applied the knowledge you have already learned to use the proper materials. You have used the silk meant for your embroidery project, which not only is a misuse of the material I gave to you; it is a completely inappropriate type of thread for this cotton. You know better, or at least I believed you did; you seemed to understand the proper ways to blend yarns and fabric.'

'Yes, Mistress Histëalë,' croaked Lindórië, staring at her hands to avoid her teacher's questioning, disappointed expression.

'Then why did you use the silk?' Histëalë asked with steely calmness.

'Because it was here,' Lindórië whispered, her voice barely audible above the drone of the bees.

Histëalë's icy expression grew many times colder while Lindórië, close to tears, squirmed and bit her lip.

'So I see,' said the teacher. She frowned at the trousers as though they had given her mortal offense.

'Lindórië, you are young and the young are too often impatient for all things to come to them at once. I knew this when I agreed to have you as a student. You have potential, the raw talent is there, but you must apply the knowledge I give you unstintingly. I will forgive you this error in judgement, but you must know that I will brook no laziness. No matter how much talent you may possess, it will amount to naught if you fail to apply it properly in all things and at all times.

'You have the thread to fix these properly, do you not?' Histëalë demanded, shaking the trousers.

Lindórië answered with a quick nod, not trusting herself to speak.

'Go and get it. When you return you will demonstrate your knowledge to me.'

Lindórië leapt to her feet and fled towards the cottage, thankful to be out of Histëalë's sight. Maitimo had unwittingly placed her entire future in jeopardy; if she did not perform to Histëalë's expectations, she was sure to be sent away in disgrace.

She dashed into the small room that had been assigned to her and collected the boxes where her threads were stored. Stacking them into a large pile, she tucked the top under her chin and tottered into the garden as quickly as she dared.

Histëalë was still seated in her chair, still examining the trousers. A disappointed frown furrowed her brow. She transferred the expression to Lindórië and her boxes of threads. Lindórië slowed her pace.

Histëalë examined the boxes darkly while Lindórië shifted from foot to foot.

'Is that all of your threads?' she finally asked.

'Yes?' said Lindórië, aware that she had made another mistake but at a loss as to the nature of the error.

'Very well,' said Histëalë, shaking her head in sad but uninformative disappointment. 'Put those down, sit here and tell me where you believe this fabric originated.

Lindórië stacked the boxes on the ground beside her chair and took her place beside her teacher.

Histëalë spread the material across her lap.

'What variety of material is this?' she asked.

'It is cotton?' Lindórië replied, her confidence shaken.

There was a long pause as Histëalë waited.

'From whence came did it come?' the teacher finally prompted.

Lindórië stared at the fabric and chewed on her lip. She was not nearly as sure of herself as she had been when she had first looked at the fabric and began to second-guess herself.

'I believe it may have come from the cotton fields near Lórien?' she said, deciding her first impression had been correct.

'Yes,' said Histëalë. If she was pleased by her student's knowledge she gave no sign of it. 'What sort of thread would you use for the repair?'

Lindórië ran a finger over the fabric, her mind a blank of panic. Histëalë was waiting, with growing impatience, for her to reply.

'I would use a thread as close as possible of the same fiber, origin and colour?' Lindórië guessed.

'Yes,' said Histëalë. 'And do you have such thread?'

'I believe I do,' said Lindórië. She selected one of the boxes, opened it and began to shuffle through the contents, running her fingers over threads of brown and black cotton, pulling them out, examining them minutely then returning them to the box.

There was nothing that would match the fabric perfectly. She removed the top tray, but the second tier was filled with yellow and orange threads. The lower tiers, she knew held the reds, blues, greens and purples so she closed the box and moved to the next one.

Gold and silver threads gleamed in Laurelin's waning light. Lindórië closed the box of metallic threads and took the next one. There was a perfect match for the colour of the trousers, but the thread was wool instead of cotton. Sighing with disappointment, she closed that box and moved to the next.

She searched each and every box. Silk and linen threads were pondered over and discarded. Eventually she went back to the original box and agonized over which thread to use.

'What troubles you?' Histëalë asked. 'Can you not choose?'

'This thread is the best match for the fiber,' said Lindórië, pointing at a skein of finely spun cotton..

'Yes?' Histëalë prompted.

'But the colour is not precisely the same.'

'Which is more important, the fiber or the colour?' asked Histëalë.

'Both?' said Lindórië, watching her teacher's face and hoping for a look of approval.

Instead, Histëalë simply watched her and waited.

'Are you certain?' the teacher finally asked.

'Yes,' replied Lindórië with far more certainty than she felt.

'You are correct,' Histëalë said. A small, fleeting smile lit her features. The expression quickly faded.

'But you do not have the proper thread in the proper colour,' she pointed out. 'What should you do?'

'I…' stammered Lindórië. The correct answer would be to dye matching, untinted thread the proper matching colour, but Lindórië's knowledge of dyes was not up to the task. It would take several cycles of trial and error to match the colour exactly, and even then there was no guarantee she could meet Histëalë's standards before the seasons changed.

Histëalë was watching her with utter calmness. It was quite plain that she could wait years for the answer, so long as the answer was correct.

'I should dye an appropriate thread to match the colour exactly,' began Lindórië. The corners of Histëalë's mouth turned up almost imperceptibly. 'But…' she continued and then trailed off as the corners of her teacher's lips ventured downwards.

'But?' Histëalë asked. Her tone made it clear that nothing Lindórië could say at this juncture would be satisfactory.

Lindórië, guessing she would be scolded no matter what she said, decided to be truthful.

'But I do not yet know enough about dyes to match the colour exactly. It could take a very long time and this is not an assignment you gave to me.'

The leaves above rustled in an agitated way. Lindórië raised her voice and hoped Histëalë would not notice the lack of wind. 'Even then the trousers are worn, so what matches the colour in one section will not match in another section. And I was hoping to practice the stitches.'

Histëalë had a way with people. Her tranquil outward expression had not truly changed, but Lindórië had the impression that her teacher was looking straight through her head to the back of her skull. She dropped her gaze and twisted the thread; resolutely refusing to meet her teacher's eyes for fear that Maitimo would be revealed in her thoughts.

At last Histëalë sighed. Lindórië looked at her from the corner of her eye and saw that she was examining the trousers once again. She hazarded a glance in the direction of the rustling leaves. To her distress Maitimo was clearly visible. He was hanging upside down, and holding his tunic firmly in place to preserve his modesty.

In spite of the situation it was all Lindórië could do to not laugh aloud. She shook her head and pressed her finger against her lips, hoping he would trust her to rectify the situation without revealing himself to Histëalë. He frowned an upside down frown but slowly withdrew into the upper branches.

'Lindórië, I am disappointed in you,' said Histëalë severely.

Lindórië swallowed hard, all mirth extinguished.

'You claim you wish to learn yet you insist upon reaching beyond your level of skill. Embroidery is not simply sticking thread to fabric. To truly excel at the craft you must know the basics or you will not accomplish anything worthwhile. First you must learn of fabrics and dyes and how they interact. Only once you have an acceptable knowledge of these can you expect to apply the stitches properly.'

The pit of Lindórië's stomach ached. She fully expected Histëalë to dismiss her. That would effectively end her dream of serving with Vairë. She wondered how she could at least get the trousers back before she left. The scandal that would ensue if Maitimo were caught half naked in the garden with her would last for millennia.

'Very well,' Histëalë suddenly said. 'If you wish to learn, learn you shall.'

She handed the trousers to Lindórië, who was too surprised to comprehend what had happened.

'Here. Take them,' Histëalë said, shaking the trousers at her. Lindórië recovered her senses and grabbed them but then was uncertain of what to do.

Histëalë suffered from no hesitation. 'First cut out the stitches you have already done. They are a disgrace. Then thread your needle and begin again, only properly this time.'

Lindórië fumbled for her scissors. She carefully cut out the stitches she had just put in. They were far from perfect, but they had been strong enough for Maitimo to reach home. She hoped he would not be in trouble for returning late although he would have to be extremely late to equal the uproar of his arriving home without his trousers.

She cut an appropriate length of the thread that most closely matched the fabric, threaded the needle, tied the knot, carefully matched the edged of the torn seam together and began to stitch.

'No. Begin again,' said Histëalë before she had pulled through the thread of the first stitch.

Lindórië paused and wondered what she had done incorrectly. She obediently pulled out the stitch, pinned the two sides of the torn seam together and began anew.

'Wrong. Begin again,' said Histëalë before Lindórië had completed the first stitch.

Again Lindórië wondered at the nature of her mistake. She began again several times in different places, but each time Histëalë would stop her before she could pull through the first stitch.

Out of desperation, Lindórië trimmed the knot from the end of her thread and began again. This time she made it to the third stitch before Histëalë raised an objection.

Laurelin had waned from the height of her cycle and Telperion's silver light had begun to shine into the garden before Lindórië managed to complete sewing the seam.

'Not good, but acceptable,' said Histëalë as she inspected Lindórië's work. Lindórië almost sighed with relief.

'Now, take it out,' said Histëalë, handing the trousers back to Lindórië.

'Take it out?' Lindórië asked in disbelief.

'You can hardly expect to mend the jagged tear properly with the rest of the fabric sewn together. Take out the seam and mend the tear first.'

Lindórië stifled a shout of frustration as she pulled out the work it had taken hours to complete.

'How would you mend the tear?' asked Histëalë as Lindórië studied the rent cloth.

'This way,' Lindórië said. Threading the needle again, she used the stitch Lady Anairë had showed her. How kind Anairë had been. Lindórië wished the Lady Anairë could have been her teacher instead of Histëalë. Anairë would have explained things to her instead of expecting her to have the knowledge already. What was the point in being an apprentice if one already knew everything?

Distracted by her bitter musings, it was hardly surprising when Histëalë stopped her again and again and forced her to begin anew. After the third false start, Lindórië was careful to devote all of her attention to her sewing rather than her silent grumbling. Even so, it took another several hours before Histëalë was satisfied enough with her efforts to let the results stand.

'If you were anything other than a beginner I would not accept this but one needs to start somewhere,' Histëalë sniffed as she handed the trousers back to Lindórië. 'Now sew the seam.'

Grinding her teeth in frustration, Lindórië began the work she had completed and then destroyed. She nearly burst into tears when Histëalë ordered her rip out her stitches for the sixth time. She wondered if Maitimo was still in the tree or if he had decided to risk being seen in order to get home before the new year. Either way she doubted she would see him again. Under the circumstances, it was just as well.

The time of the Mingled light of the Trees was long passed before Histëalë declared Lindórië's work acceptable.

'Pack your supplies and put them away,' the embroidery teacher said as she stood up. 'We shall continue your regular lessons at the next time of the Mingled Light.'

'There. That ought to get him back to Finwë's house,' she said as she glided towards the cottage, leaving a shocked Lindórië to stare at her retreating back. She knew! She had known all along! Had the prolonged lesson been punishment for not telling her the truth? Or had it simply been Histëalë being Histëalë?

Too drained to care, Lindórië tossed the trousers into the tree branches.

She barely heard Maitimo's muttered thanks as she packed away her supplies.


End file.
